


Spent Q

by earlybloomingparentheses



Series: The Sibilant Series [4]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Plug, Dominant Bond, Gags, Humiliation, M/M, Mention of a Skyfall spoiler, Rough Sex, Subdrop, Submissive Q, Vibrator, poor communication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 06:33:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11098899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlybloomingparentheses/pseuds/earlybloomingparentheses
Summary: “Your projects are safe,” Bond says, a gravelly thread of amusement running through his voice. His eyes flash. “It’s not that kind of tech."Q’s brow wrinkles in confusion, and then Bond takes something from his pocket, and—oh.Q’s mouth goes very dry.In which Bond brings Q a toy.





	Spent Q

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't think I was going to post any more of these, but here we are! A heads up that we're back to Bond and Q having rough, forceful sex without discussing it first. More notes at the end if you want a heads up on specifics.
> 
> Also, there's another installment coming soon. (:

“I’ve come for my tech.”

Q looks up. Bond is standing in the doorway of Q’s office, hands in his pockets, slouching against the doorframe.

“Right,” says Q briskly. He snaps open a metal briefcase, then gives Bond a stern look. “This mission is supposed to take no more than four hours, and you’re not even leaving London. Simple dropoff and pickup.”

“So?”

“So there’s absolutely no excuse not to bring this all back in one piece.”

Bond smirks, glancing over Q’s arm into the briefcase. Q pulls it towards himself protectively, frowning.

“What can I say, Q. Sometimes things happen.”

“Oh, yes, of course. And they only ever happen _to_ you. You never _cause_ them to happen.”

“Never.”

Q sighs and gives it up for a lost cause. “Here. An earpiece, hidden mic—clip that to the inside of your collar—tracker, canister for the goods—opens with your thumbprint. And your gun, yes, take it, I see you panting for it.”

Bond grins slowly, and a tiny shiver runs up Q’s spine.

“ _Not_ that you should need to use it,” Q adds severely.

He snaps the briefcase shut. Bond just stands there, watching him.

“Well?”

“I have tech for you, too, Q.”

Q’s eyebrows shoot up. Dear _lord_ , if Bond has been messing around with his things—

“Your projects are safe,” Bond says, a gravelly thread of amusement running through his voice. His eyes flash. “It’s not that kind of tech.”

Q’s brow wrinkles in confusion, and then Bond takes something from his pocket, and— _oh_.

Q’s mouth goes very dry.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t make it myself,” Bond says, pulling the door shut behind him. Q manages a small smile. Bond barks out a laugh, then—

“Turn around.”

Q does, immediately, automatically.

“Good boy,” Bond says, like you’d say to an obedient dog, and Q flushes deep. “Now bend over.”

Q bends his torso, resting his elbows on his desk. His face gets pink so _fast_.

Bond reaches round Q, unbuckles his belt, unzips him, pulls his trousers and pants down to Q’s knees in one sharp motion. Q—oh, Christ. Q _whimpers_.

There’s a long moment in which Q is simply leaning over his desk, bare arse in the air—his breath constricting with humiliation and the hot, jagged edge of anticipation—and then Bond shoves a lubed finger into Q’s arsehole, harsh and fast, up to the second knuckle. Q lets out a noise, strangled, high.

Bond opens him up efficiently, almost clinically. Then he pulls out his fingers and lines up the plug with Q’s wet arsehole, and pushes home.

Q stifles a cry.

“All right,” Bond says coolly, wiping his fingers on a tissue he takes from Q’s desk. “Only four hours, you said. You can keep it in for that long, can’t you, Q?”

Q is still panting, trying to adjust to the feeling of something huge and hard stuffed inside him. “I…”

Bond leans over, pulls up Q’s pants and trousers, zips him back up. “Well?”

“Yes, sir,” Q says breathlessly, turning around, and then freezes.

_He just called James Bond sir._

And now James Bond looks like he wants to _eat_ him.

Q swallows.

Bond slides the briefcase off the desk and walks out of Q’s office without a backward glance.

 

 

 

 

“Okay,” Q says, tongue in his teeth. He’s following the red dot that is 007 on a zoomed-in map of Shoreditch and trying to sit very, _very_ still. “Left, then left again, then right. The building should have red paint around the windowframes.”

Bond grunts in response. Q shifts in his seat, then stills himself as a throb of sensation pulses through his arse, all the way up his spine.

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath.

“What was that, Q?”

“Red paint,” Q says loudly. “Do you see it?”

“Mm,” Bond responds, and Q hears a rustle of fabric. “One minute. Gotta get something started first.”

Q frowns, waiting. “Bond, what—oh my _fucking shit holy—_ ” He shuts up, fast. The plug is _vibrating._

“Red windowsills?” Bond says casually. “Got it.”

“Bond—” Q whines, his breath hitching. His whole body is _lit up_ , waves of pleasure shooting upwards from his trembling arse. “Fuck. _Bond—_ ”

“Front door, or is there another way?”

“ _Wait_ , just—oh god.” Q breathes, breathes, breathes; hard to do when his head is growing light, all his blood rushing rapidly downwards. Oh, god, he can feel it in his _teeth_. “Bond, I— _you’re on a mission right now_.”

“I had noticed, yes.”

“This is,” Q inhales; would standing be better? Oh, fuck, _no_. He sits back down hastily. “This is _dangerous_. This is— _ahhh_ —this is putting you in _serious danger_ —”

“I don’t care,” Bond says dismissively.

“Well, I do!” Q bursts out. “Turn it off, 007!”

Abruptly, the vibrations stop. Q slouches back in his chair, breathing hard.

There’s a long, long silence.

“Bond—”

“Front door, or back?” 

“Bond—”

“Instructions, Q?” Bond requests sharply.

Q feels his stomach drop. His dick is rapidly softening. “Side door. On the right. Don’t trip the alarm.”

“Fine.”

And for the rest of the four and three-quarters hours the job ends up taking, they exchange nothing more than mission details.

 

 

 

 

When Bond shows up afterwards with the silver briefcase, all his tech in one piece, Q watches him warily, uncertain of where they stand. He wonders, with a small shiver, if Bond will punish him for his earlier outburst.

He hopes so.

But Bond is all business. At first Q thinks he is angry—genuinely angry—and a spark of anger flares up in his own chest in response. Bond told him to say no when he needed to, after all; Q has limits, he told Bond that less than a week ago. But it flashes through Q’s mind as Bond turns to go, his face curiously blank, that anger isn’t what Bond is feeling at all.

“Bond,” Q says quietly, uncertainly.

The agent stops, but doesn’t look at Q.

“Will you…come home with me?”

Bond is silent. “I have a meeting with M and the Met’s Art & Antiques division,” he finally replies.

“After that,” Q presses. “Meet me at my flat?”

Bond says nothing.

“Please,” Q entreats, and he’s not sure if he’s done this on purpose or not, but his voice carries a breathy, needy note that sounds more like begging than a request. 

After a moment, Bond jerks his head yes, then leaves. Q watches him go, hoping he’s reading Bond right. Heaven knows the man is an enigma. But if Q’s not entirely mistaken, Bond is _nervous._

 

 

 

Q offers Bond a glass of wine as soon as he comes up to Q’s flat. Bond raises an eyebrow but sips obediently. Q leans back against his counter, trying to look nonchalant, and drinks from his own glass.

“So,” he says. “Don’t you want your tech back too?”

Bond’s face doesn’t move, except to turn even more stonelike than usual. After a second, he holds out his hand.

Q swallows. “But—don’t you want to retrieve it yourself?” he asks, and steps into Bond’s personal space, too close, so close he can smell the man’s aftershave and sweat.

Bond doesn’t move. Q’s heart sinks.

“It’s just,” he says, unbuttoning his trousers—Christ, his hands are sweating—“It’s just, I—I want you to, I— _please_.”

He pushes his pants down. He’s still soft, too nervous, but Bond’s eyes widen anyway. Q takes Bond’s wrist gingerly in his hand, half-expecting to be slapped away, and pulls Bond’s fingers around his backside.

“You kept it in,” Bond utters, looking startled into Q’s face as his fingers brush the back of the plug.

Q sucks in a breath as the weight of Bond’s touch sends sparks up his spine. “Of course I did,” he says, gritting his teeth, “and it’s been torture, I’m sure you’ll be glad to hear.”

“So…”

“So what?” Q asks. “It was the vibrating that was a problem, not the plug. I wouldn’t have let you put it in if it hadn’t been okay.”

Q swears he see a flicker of relief pass across Bond’s face, and the man’s shoulders square ever so slightly. “No vibrators, then,” Bond confirms.

Q’s eyebrows shoot up. “No vibrator _while we’re on active mission,_ Bond. Nothing that will ruin my concentration enough to compromise your safety.”

Bond shrugs. “I told you, I don’t care about that." 

“Well, I do!” Q snaps, startling himself with his vehemence. Christ, he’s standing in front of James Bond with his trousers around his ankles and a plug up his arse; how are they not fucking yet? “Listen, just—no using the vibrator while I’m on active mission, that’s the rule. You can press that wicked little remote any other time you want, you arsehole.”

Like a shot, Bond’s hand is in his pocket and then Q’s arse is on fire, the plug pulsing deep inside him. Bond looms up over Q, his eyes alight and steel-sharp once more, and Q feels his bones turn liquid.

“Do you want to call me that again, Q?” Bond asks, his voice low and dangerous.

Q shakes his head, fear bubbling up deliciously in his throat.

“What was that?”

“No. No— _sir_.”

“Good boy,” Bond breathes in Q’s ear, and cups Q’s arse. Q moans as the vibrator _pulses, pulses, pulses_ , and feels himself slipping away, into a daze of lust and anticipation and pathetic need. But there’s a lingering question surfacing in Q’s mind, rising slippery into his consciousness, and—and—

“Do you want to die?” he gasps out, far more bluntly than he means to, and Bond freezes, looking shocked for perhaps the first time in Q’s memory.

“What?” he asks incredulously.

“You said,” Q’s breath hitches, “you just said you didn’t care about your safety.”

“That’s right.”

“So…do you…?”

Bond barks out a laugh. “I don’t have a death wish, no, Q, for fuckssake, keep your lurid imagination in check.” He squeezes his fingers, pushing Q’s arse cheeks tighter around the plug, and Q sees stars.

“But—if you don’t care— _oh_.” Realization bursts in on Q even as his fingers scrabble back against the counter, trying to find purchase. “You _don’t care_. If you—die or—are in danger or—not. You are— _shit_ —you are genuinely _indifferent._ ”

“Yes, Q, full marks, very clever, you know what words mean, now shut your mouth, you pretentious little showoff berk, and take what you’re given.”

The words send a hot rush of shame all the way from Q’s toes to his ears. Bond stops working at Q’s arse and grapples with Q’s trousers and pants, pulling them roughly down as Q tries to step out of them without falling over. Q wants to be good for Bond, wants to give in to the pulsing vibrations radiating through his body, but—

“What about other people?” The words spill out of Q’s mouth. “People you meet on missions. Do you care if they’re in danger? If they die?”

Bond goes very, very still, crouched at Q’s feet, then runs his hands slowly, dangerously, up the backs of Q’s thighs. “Not particularly, no.”

Q’s head jerks back as the bottom of Bond’s thumb brushes the underside of his balls. He lets out a garbled whine and Bond rubs his big, thick fingers over Q’s delicate sack.

“I told you, Q,” Bond breathes, as Q tries not to, “I don’t feel things like other people do. I care about two things: _pain_ , both giving and receiving it—” Bond twists Q’s balls and Q yelps, fright and stabbing pain shooting through him, “—and _power_. Mostly taking it.”

Bond digs his fingernail into the tender skin around Q’s balls and tugs, gently but firmly, trapping them in his steel-like grasp. Q stands helpless in Bond’s grip, afraid to move, the vibrator’s pulse sharpening the points of pain where Bond’s nails are buried in his skin. Q doesn’t breathe, doesn’t dare, but then he looks down at Bond’s face, so merciless, so cold, and he can’t stop himself.

“You cared when M died.”

Bond’s face goes utterly, absolutely still. “Yes,” he says, “I did.”

And then he _lunges_. He swipes Q’s pants from the floor and shoves them into Q’s mouth. Q inhales, chokes, trying to back up but he can’t, the counter is behind him, so his hands move helplessly against the granite as Bond’s fingers wrap around his throat.

“Breathe through your fucking nose, Q,” he hisses, and Q stops inhaling the sour-sweet fabric of his pants and tries, tries, breathes. Breathes. In and out.

“Good,” Bond says softly, and then clamps down, cutting off Q’s air.

Q struggles, for a dizzying moment filled with terror, but then Bond’s fingers let up and the man is pressing his own stiff, trouser-covered cock into Q’s.

“That’s quite enough talking from you, insolent little slut,” Bond says roughly. “You’ll learn your place if I have to choke it into you." 

The words fill Q with shameful lust, molten, scalding, bringing tears to the corners of his eyes. He nods, tasting himself on the scratchy fabric still shoved into his mouth, evidence of his six-hour-long stint with a plug up his arse, and, oh, it’s still vibrating, it’s much, much too much, overstimulating, harsh—Q whimpers through his gag, his knees growing weak.

“I want this fucking shirt off you,” Bond says, and pulls, jerking up Q’s arms and his head and sending his glasses flying as the shirt comes off. Bond picks them up from where they’ve fallen and places them on the counter. Q watches him, slightly blurred now, but still looming.

“Pinch me if you don’t want something,” Bond breathes into his ear, “because this gag stays in.”

Q nods, and—oh. Oh, shit. Bond is unlooping his tie from his neck and tying it around Q’s mouth, securing the underpants in place. Bond steps back, still fully clothed, and looks at Q, naked, gagged, struggling to stay standing as the vibrator pulses without pity.

“Time for this to come out,” Bond says, and pulls the plug out of Q’s arse in one swift motion. Q’s vision goes briefly white as pain blooms through him, and then he’s falling, sinking ungracefully to his knees.

Bond looks down at him, cool, contemptuous. A darkly eager chill runs up Q’s spine as he understands: _this_ is punishment. Not for saying no to the vibrator. For making Bond admit something Q wasn’t supposed to know.

“How’s your arse?” Bond asks, nudging Q’s hip with his polished brown shoe. “Sore?”

Q presses his face against the floor, unable to get up. Bond pushes harder with his foot, almost a kick, and Q nods his assent.

“Good. And open, isn’t it, Q? So pink and loose and open. Gaping, really. Like you’ve already been fucked. Like you’ve been fucked by a whole line of men, like the slut you are.”

Q doesn’t—Q hasn’t. Two men at once, that’s the most he’s been with, and they didn’t fuck, they all just rubbed each other off, but Q—Q is as ashamed, as aroused, as if he _had_ been fucked by multiple men, one after another, and loved it. As if he’d loved it.

“I’m going to use your gaping pink hole, Q. I’m going to use you to fuck myself, to get myself off, and I don’t care what you get out of it. Do you understand? _I don’t care about you_.”

Q…Q nods. Tears leak from his eyes, and he nods, and nods, and nods.

Behind him, Bond is unzipping his trousers, and Q can hear condom and lube sounds and Bond’s grunt as he lowers himself to the floor. But Q can’t move, can’t even raise himself on his elbows, as Bond pulls him ungently back onto his still-clothed lap.

Bond lines his cock up with Q’s arse and Q sheds a few more tears and Bond pushes in. He shoves Q off his lap and face-first onto the floor as he jackknifes into Q, thrusting forward into Q’s arse, Q’s knees splayed and stretched, burning, beneath him. Q’s arms trail limply on the ground and Q rubs his face against the floor, still breathing through his nose, the pants stuffed in his mouth growing damp as he fails to swallow around them. 

Bond thrusts, thrusts, thrusts, piston-like, fast. Q’s hole _hurts_. But after the plug, the vibrations, it’s loose, so loose, and it’s more overstimulation that anything that wrenches feeble little sobs from Q’s throat. Bond fucks himself, and that’s what he’s doing, it really is, fucking himself and not Q, he’s _using_ Q, using him to—to let off steam, to pleasure himself. And it’s—it’s maybe a bit of a lie, the whole thing, the thought blooms red and purple and strange across Q’s fuzzy mind: Bond using Q like an object is a lie, or, or partly a lie; but Bond is an excellent liar.

Bond comes. He comes with a sharp, aborted shout, and Q is nowhere, nowhere near coming himself as Bond’s cock spasms inside him. Honestly, Q is only half-hard, but his mind and his body feel syrupy-thick—raw, open, battered, but in a sweet way, like rotten fruit. Q melts limply across the floor as Bond pulls out, and Q feels…he feels…

“Q?” Bond’s foot is nudging against Q’s hip. “You still with me, Q?”

Q can’t really move. He thinks about it, imagines pushing himself up on his elbow, turning his flushed, sweat-soaked face back to look at Bond, but instead he just lies there, his cheek against the tile. The tile is cool; it feels good.

“Q,” Bond says sharply. He bends down and flips Q over, like a rag doll. Q blinks up at him, slowly. Bond unknots the tie, pulls the gag from Q’s mouth.

Cool air rushes into Q’s throat, harsh, dizzying. “’m…” Q slurs, “…’m fine.”

He can’t really see Bond’s face. Not without his glasses. And he’s…somewhere else, anyway.

Bond moves out of Q’s blurred vision and comes back a moment later. He kneels down by Q’s head.

“Drink,” he says sharply, bringing a glass of cold water to Q’s lips.

Q complies obediently. The water is good. Bond pulls the cup away before it’s empty and unceremoniously dumps the rest over Q’s face.

“Hey,” Q says, but without rancor.

“Up,” Bond orders. “Sofa.” He makes to lift Q, but Q shakes his head.

“Let me…let me stay here.”

Q can make out a frown on Bond’s face, but Bond lets his arms drop. After a moment, Bond stands again. Q sees him moving around the kitchen, collecting clothes, dumping the condom, wiping himself down. Q’s eyes follow him lazily, from habit, not curiosity.

Bond sits. “You might cry, Q,” he says abruptly. “When you’re coming down from this.”

“Already cried,” Q says, shrugging his naked shoulders against the smooth tiles.

“I don’t…” Bond stops.

“Yes,” Q says. “I know.”

Bond looks at him. Q, still half-drunk on sensation, smiles up at Bond. Bond turns his head away.

“I’m not what you want, Q.”

“You don’t know what I want.”

Bond is silent. He’s silent for a long time. But he waits, sitting in Q’s kitchen, his hand resting gently in Q’s hair, until Q pulls himself unsteadily to his feet. Weeping quietly, the tears falling without any real emotion behind them—he feels only flat, calm, hollowed-out—Q goes to wash himself clean.

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings: Bond puts a plug up Q's ass, which he gets permission to do, but it vibrates, which Q doesn't know about at first; Bond turns it off when Q asks. Later, Bond gags Q and fucks him pretty roughly. He does tell Q to pinch him if he does anything Q doesn't want. There's some subdrop at the end, and Bond doesn't leave Q while it's happening.


End file.
